John Grisham - The Confession

It did not, nor did the ranch, and Joey was holding a clipboard and frowning at a display of windshield wipers when the investigator made his move. The long aisle was empty. It was almost noon, a Monday, and the store was practically empty.

“Are you Joey?” the investigator asked with a tight smile just under a thick mustache.

Joey glanced down at the plastic name badge pinned above his shirt pocket. “That’s me.” He tried to return the smile. This was, after all, retail, and the customer must be adored. However, this guy did not appear to be a customer.

“My name’s Fred Pryor.” The right hand shot out like a boxing punch bound for the gut. “I’m a private investigator.” Joey grabbed it, almost in self-defense, and they shook hands for a few awkward seconds. “Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” Joey said, his radar at full alert. Mr. Pryor was about fifty years old, thick in the chest, with a round tough face topped with gray hair that required work each morning. He wore a standard navy blazer, tan polyester slacks that were straining at the waist, and, of course, a pair of well-shined, pointed-toe boots.

“What kind of investigator?” Joey asked.

“I’m not a cop, Joey. I’m a private investigator, duly licensed by the State of Texas.”

“You got a gun?”

“Yep.” Pryor flung open his blazer to reveal a 9-millimeter Glock strapped under his left armpit. “You wanna see the permit?” he asked.

“No. Who are you working for?”

“Donté Drumm’s defense team.”

The shoulders sagged a bit, the eyes rolled, the air escaped in one quick sigh of frustration, as if to say, “Not that again.” But Pryor expected this and moved in quickly. “I’ll buy you lunch, Joey. We can’t talk here. There’s a Mexican place around the corner. Meet me there. Give me thirty minutes, okay? That’s all I ask. You get lunch. I get some face time. Then maybe you’ll never see me again.”

The Monday special was quesadillas, all you can eat for $6.50. The doctor told him to lose some weight, but he craved Mexican food, especially the greased-up, flash-fried, American version.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Pryor glanced around as if others were listening. “Thirty minutes. Look, Joey, I’m not a cop. I have no authority, no warrant, no right to ask for anything. But you know the history better than me.”

Pryor would later report to Robbie Flak that at that point the kid lost his edge, stopped smiling, and his eyes half closed in a look of submission and sadness. It was as if he knew this day would eventually arrive. At that moment, Pryor was certain they would catch a break.

Joey glanced at his watch and said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Order me one of their house margaritas.”

“You got it.” Pryor thought that drinking at lunch could be problematic, at least for Joey. But then, the alcohol might help.

The house margarita was served in a clear, bowl-shaped pitcher of some sort and was enough of a beverage for several thirsty men. As the minutes passed, condensation formed on the glass and the ice began to melt. Pryor sipped iced tea with lemon and sent a message to Flak: “Meeting JG for lunch now. Later.”

Joey arrived on time and managed to squeeze his sizable frame into the booth. He slid the glass over, took the straw, and inhaled an impressive quantity of the booze. Pryor made some small talk until the waiter took their orders and disappeared, then he moved in closer and got to the point.

“Donté will be executed Thursday. Did you know that?”

Joey nodded slowly. Affirmative. “I saw it in the paper. Plus, I talked to my mother last night and she said the town is buzzing.”

The mother was still in Slone. The father was working in Oklahoma, maybe separated. An older brother was in Slone. A younger sister had moved to California.

“We’re trying to stop the execution, Joey, and we need your help.”

“Who’s we?”

“I’m working for Robbie Flak.”

Joey almost spit. “Is that nut still around?”

“Of course he is. He’ll always be around. He’s represented Donté from day one, and I’m sure he’ll be in Huntsville Thursday night at the bitter end. That is, if we can’t stop the execution.”

“The paper said the appeals have run out. There’s nothing left to do.”

“Maybe, but you never quit. A man’s life is at stake, how can you quit?”

Another pull on the straw. Pryor hoped the guy was one of those passive drunks who take the booze and sort of melt into the furnishings, as opposed to the hell-raisers who knock back two drinks and try to clear out the bar.

Joey smacked his lips and said, “I guess you’re convinced he’s innocent, right?”

“I am. Always have been.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the complete lack of physical evidence; based on the fact that he had an alibi, he was somewhere else; based on the fact that his confession is as bogus as a three-dollar bill; based on the fact that he’s passed at least four polygraph tests; based on the fact that he has always denied any involvement. And, Joey, for purposes of this discussion, based on the fact that your testimony at trial was completely unbelievable. You didn’t see a green van in the parking lot in the vicinity of Nicole’s car. It was impossible. You left the mall through the entrance to the cinema. She was parked on the west side, on the other side of the mall. You fabricated the testimony to help the cops nail their suspect.”

There was no eruption, no anger. He took it well, much like a child caught red-handed with a stolen coin and unable to utter words.

“Keep going,” Joey said.

“You want to hear it?”

“I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”

“Indeed you have. You heard it at trial, eight years ago. Mr. Flak explained it to the jury. You were crazy about Nicole, but she wasn’t crazy about you. Typical high school drama. You dated off and on, no sex, a rather stormy relationship, and at some point you suspected that she was seeing someone else. Turned out this was Donté Drumm, which, of course, in Slone and in a lot of other small towns, could lead to real problems. No one knew for sure, but the gossip was out of control. Maybe she tried to break it off with him. He denies this. He denies everything. Then she disappeared, and you saw the opportunity to nail the guy. Nail him you did. You sent him to death row, and now you’re about to be responsible for killing him.”

“So, I’m gettin’ all the blame here?”

“Yes, sir. Your testimony placed him at the scene of the crime, or at least the jury thought so. It was almost laughable because it was so inconsistent, but the jury was anxious to believe you. You didn’t see a green van. You lied. You fabricated. You also called Detective Kerber with the anonymous tip, and the rest is history.”

“I did not call Kerber.”

“Of course you did. We have the experts to prove it. You didn’t even try to disguise your voice. According to our analysis, you had been drinking but weren’t drunk. There was a slight slur in a few of your words. You want to see the report?”

“No. It was never admitted in court.”

“That’s because we didn’t know about your phone call until after the trial, and that’s because the cops and prosecutors concealed it, which should have led to a reversal, which, of course, is pretty rare here in Texas.”

The waitress arrived with a platter of sizzling quesadillas, all for Joey. Pryor took his taco salad and asked for more tea. After a few generous bites, Joey said, “So who killed her?”

“Who knows? There’s no proof she’s even dead.”

“They found her gym card and student ID.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t find her body. She could be alive for all we know.”